Just Because
by Meia
Summary: Fruits Basket. Yaoi warning. Gosh, is there ever a yaoi warning. Heavy heavy heavy Yuki/Kyo lime action, not WAFF. Gosh, is it ever not WAFF. Be warned.
1. Just Because

Yaoi happens. Intense boy-on-boy making out happens. This is not a warm and fuzzy Yuki-Kyo RABU RABU sparkly heart fanfic, because, uh, that would never happen. Set nowhere in particular in the timeline.   
  
It wasn't my fault. And yes, it sort of starts in the middle of the action, but I don't know how they got into that situation myself. All Yuki is saying is something about a fight that went a little awry, and the wrong things being said at the wrong time. .;;x First person Yuki-POV.   
  
-Just Because-  
  
I have him pinned. It's not anything new, not by a long shot--we fight enough that it happens every now and then, usually with me at the advantage, though sometimes he comes out on top. The circumstances, though, are mindnumbingly different--it's dark out, for one thing, and the mats on the floor of the dojo provide a bit of a softer surface, and he isn't snarling at me to let him go. Instead his eyes are half-lidded and heavy as he pulls me down and close, and we kiss.  
  
It's a hard, harsh kiss, a sort of fight for dominance in its own right, and I'm not surprised when he bites me, teeth closing on my lip hard enough to almost draw blood. I bite back, though, and I /do/ draw blood, just a little. He doesn't give any sign of feeling it, and his hands don't stop tracing their patterns, although he breaks the kiss to flick his tongue against the two small puncture wounds.  
  
We fumble with buttons and cloth until we give it up as a lost cause and make do with what we can. His hands slide up the back of my shirt, warm and dry and rough, and I run my tongue down the line of his jaw and throat, nipping hard at the junction where neck meets shoulder.   
  
As if in retaliation, he claws one of his hands down my back, withdrawing it from my shirt and tangling his fingers in my hair instead. The stinging fades in moments, overwritten by the distraction of him trailing feather-light touches in the wake of his nails.  
  
Someone's keening, a low, throaty purr that's more felt than heard, really--it can't be me because I'm still licking at his neck and making my way down his chest, undoing the buttons as patiently as I can when I encounter them, although one or two and tug free of the shirt itself to skid sharply against the floor. And even though the night air is cool where it breezes across my skin, I'm hot. I'm hot and he's burning, but instead of pulling away we're trying to get closer, and closer still, so when he pulls his other hand away it feels as though something's missing and I almost protest, but I don't. I just continue with what I've been doing, but when he tugs my hair back, hard enough to hurt, I lift my head and look at him.  
  
He doesn't meet my gaze. Instead, his hands go straight to struggling with the clasp on my shirt, and I let him, leaning forward to make it easier. His movements are graceful as he unhooks the fastenings--perhaps more so than usual, because he may try to hide it, but he's a cat, and no matter what else can be said about them, cats /define/ elegance.  
  
Idly, I nibble on the edge of his ear. He shifts a little and tilts his head up, but his hands don't stop working, although they're moving on by feel now, rather than sight. I bite a little harder than I should and he pauses for a moment, then yanks me down for another bruising kiss, shirt forgotten.  
  
"I hate you." He mutters, when we break off, looking at me through those half-closed eyes which unfocus further as I work at the buttons on his jeans.   
  
"Yeah. I know."   
  
His voice is low and husky, so different from his usual loudness, but him nonetheless. He manages to get my shirt off, moving in direct counterpoint to his words-- "You're a liar and a bastard and you use people, but because you're beautiful, no one cares."   
  
"Yeah," I say, tracing patterns across his chest, and down. "I hate you, too."   
  
I catch his zip in my teeth and pull down slowly, and he shivers, trailing light fingers up my neck. "I manipulate people and you know it, but you let yourself get manipulated anyway--"  
  
"And I hate you because you always win and I know I could if I wanted to--"   
  
I want to melt into his touch as he kisses my neck and the rest of our clothes are discarded as unnecessary. Our movements are frantic, almost desperate by now, and I know I'm babbling, but so is he--it's all the truth we're saying, anyway, and it's harder to keep it all in now than it is to just say it, say it, get it off our minds and know that the other heard--  
  
"I win, but the rat only wins in stories, and I hate you because you remind me that we're only fairy tales in reality--" His hand brushes my mouth and I bite at it, running my tongue along two fingers and chewing at the tips. It seems as though there's nothing in this world except feeling and sound and heat, and he arches into my touch, warm breath tickling my ear. "And we're supposed to be able to see ourselves in other people, aren't we? But there's nothing of you in me, and there's nothing of me in you, and I /hate/ you for that--" He punctuates his words by leaving a trail of stinging kisses down my neck, running his tongue along each mark as it is made.   
  
"I hate you for that, too," I say, as he leans into my touch, breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, "And I hate you because you just /don't give up/, when /I/ would have, and I hate you because you're not me in any way, even though you're a Souma through me and it's only logical that you should--"  
  
"You know when to give up," he replies, in almost the exact same tone--point, counterpoint, and I arch against him, into his hand. "And you /do/ give up, and you never mean anything by it when you smile, and I hate you because /I'm/ not like that--"  
  
"And I hate you because you're not a liar about anything and even though you try to hide it I don't understand how anyone can /live/ like that--"   
  
The words are coming faster now, and more breathlessly. I think he bites me again when we kiss, but if he does, I can't feel it, pain overwritten by everything else. His touch is light and confident, and I know he's close when he shuts up and one of his hands tangles in my hair again, although his other hand doesn't stop.  
  
"I hate you. I hate you," I say, slightly muffled around his finger, "And some things just don't have to have reasons." It doesn't sound like me, those words, that voice, but it must be because he's still not speaking, and when he climaxes, it's strangely quiet--he just pulls me closer to him and makes that purring noise deep in the back of his throat again, and I follow soon after, biting down on his hand to keep from crying out.   
  
It's a little like burning, or shattering, except not really--just a blur of feeling/sound/touch, hot and disorientating, as though I'm not actually here right now, or like I'm here /and/ somewhere else at the same time, or perhaps like I'm just an outsider looking in (and what would I see, if I were? what would I see?)--  
  
And then, the moment is over, and I sag against him, feeling... strange, spent and somehow empty, as though something subtle has changed, and I feel as though I should know what, but I don't.   
  
The floor itches at my skin as I roll onto it, but I just glance off to the side, at him--it seems as though he's asleep, or at least dozing, since his eyes are closed and his breathing is slow and relaxed. Sleep is an appealing notion, and I cast around until I find a discarded shirt and pull it close--a poor substitute for a pillow, but good enough.  
  
He cracks an eye open at my movements and stretches a little, curving his spine back, cat-like. I throw the other shirt onto him, and he mutters something through it, but it's a while before he actually reaches up to tug it off his face.   
  
"I hate you," he murmurs, articulating each syllable carefully, "And I sincerely hope you die." But there's no heat behind his words, and he hugs the shirt anyway, curling up in that uniquely feline way and closing his eyes again.  
  
"Yeah," I reply, though I don't know if he hears me. "Go to hell."   
  
Then I sleep, and if I dream, I can't remember.   
  
~Owari!~  
  
  
  
Me: ...Stop sulking.  
  
Kyo: ...  
  
Yuki: ...  
  
Me: You needed to work some of that tension off.   
  
Kyo: ...  
  
Yuki: ... ...  
  
Me: ....x Stop sulking. It could have been worse. You were only making out... really... really... heavily up there. And maybe handjobs happened.   
  
Kyo: The RAT. Gave ME. A HICKY. XO  
  
Yuki: ...Do I need to point out what you did to me? -.-   
  
Me: I was already telling you halfway to stop hurting each other, but you didn't listen.  
  
Kyo: ...  
  
Yuki: ...  
  
Kyo: ... ...Wait. =O.O=  
  
Yuki: ... ...?  
  
Kyo: /Whose/ dojo were we making out on the floor of? =O.O=  
  
Me: ...Well...  
  
Kyo: =O.O=  
  
Me: Rest assured, if he'd seen, he would have assumed that you were killing each other, and taken suitable preventive measures.  
  
Kyo: =O.O=  
  
Me: *FLEES*   
  
"...It's going to be the worst morning after..." 


	2. The Worst Morning After

...It was supposed to be funny.  
  
It is not funny.  
  
Dammit.   
  
The brain elves made me do it.  
  
-------------------------------------  
The Worst Morning After  
-------------------------------------  
  
Breakfast that morning was a quiet affair. They sat as far away from each other as the table allowed for, keeping their attention entirely and pointedly on their food, as Tohru flicked unnerved looks between the two of them.   
  
(They had, in fact, gone into the kitchen at different stages of food preparation that morning and attempted to assure the girl that they were not at all angry with her, that nothing was wrong and that she shouldn't worry if they were a little quiet that day. Let it never be said that the Soumas did not learn from past mistakes, although Yuki wasn't quite sure if he could speak for that stupid cat; he also felt, sometimes, that Honda-san was cannier than she seemed, since a couple of the looks she'd leveled at him were just slightly short of suspicious.)   
  
The only person acting anything close to normal was Shigure, who had shifted his typewriter to the dining table and was alternating between food and typing. That act had prompted a brief argument, during which Kyou got called artistically insensitive and Shigure was told to play the role of 'starving author' more accurately; violence was averted by Tohru serenely saying that she thought it was nice to see Shigure so dedicated to his work, which made Kyou choke on his miso a bit before he backed off.   
  
After that brief bout of excitement, though, uncomfortable silence took over the room again, until Tohru cleared her throat nervously and asked Shigure what he was writing in an attempt to break it. The author looked up.  
  
"Just something new," he said evasively, adding another sentence to the page, as he trailed off mumbling about inspiration and extra scenes. Slightly curious, Yuki glanced over his cousin's shoulder to the neatly typed words on the paper.  
  
And paused.  
  
Noticing Yuki's attention, Shigure tried surreptitiously to shift the typewriter away from the rat's line of vision. He was, unfortunately though, a little too late.  
  
Yuki smiled sweetly, laying one light hand on the typewriter to keep it in place as he continued to read.   
  
Shigure coughed nervously.  
  
Silence.  
  
"It appears," Yuki said at length, voice deceptively bland, "To be a lengthy, rambling discourse about two characters of highly differing dispositions."   
  
"Having se--intimate liaisons."  
  
Tohru blinked as tension levels in the room soared.   
  
"On a floor."  
  
Kyou froze, chopsticks raised mid-air.   
  
"While telling each other that they hate each other."  
  
For a while, the room was still.   
  
Then Kyou twitched.  
  
And Yuki twitched.   
  
Shigure sweatdropped.  
  
Carefully, Yuki rolled up the sleeves of his shirt (watching out of the corner of his eye as the cat stood up, cracking his knuckles purposefully and still twitching), glancing over at Tohru, who was looking even more clueless and quite worried.  
  
"Don't worry, Honda-san," he said sweetly, pushing his older cousin back into the chair as Shigure tried to stand.   
  
"I'm sure he'll be out of the hospital by Easter."   
  
----------  
Omake!  
----------  
  
The Worst Week After Preview:  
  
"I don't believe this! My little brother's finally lost his virginity! He's all grown up now... ne, ne, 'gure-san! Help me take a picture, I want to remember this day for the rest of my life!"  
  
*twitch*  
  
*twitch*  
  
"SHI. GU. RE."   
  
(no, i am not going to write it. and shigure? it's /still/ called discretion.) 


End file.
